May It Be
by Elwing-Evenstar
Summary: [Set after Second Life] The Darkness is rising for its most terrible assault yet, and all peoples of Valinor and Middle Earth must unite to conquer it once and for all. Take up arms, for the Last Hours are nigh!
1. Part I

I own nothing in this story except for a few random characters. Professor Tolkien (rest in peace) owns everything else, except one line of dialogue, which was borrowed from Loreena McKennitt's song, "Lullaby". 

**Part I: The Muster of Valinor**

Deep within the murky recesses of the Halls of Mandos, separate from the rooms which housed the spirits of deceased Men and Elves, lay the dwelling of the Doomsman and the Weaver themselves. Mandos and Vairë lay lightly asleep, side-by-side in a spacious four-poster bed, with curtains of blackest velvet surrounding it like the folds of Night.

The two Valar's hair was strewn across the pillows; waving auburn locks mingled with straight, dark, iridescent tresses like ravens' feathers. Their bodies were gently entwined, the divergence between their skin tones plainly evident. Mandos' cold, almost bone-white skin gave him the look of a cadaver in comparison to Vairë's much warmer, peach-hued body. But both husband and wife were very much alive, if not entirely alert.

The only noises in the shadowy chamber were those of Mandos' and Vairë's breaths, and of some otherworldly wind rustling through the room, brushing against the tapestry-lined walls and making the woven draperies shudder where they hung. The zephyr touched the face of Mandos, who stirred faintly; then his body tensed and jerked as he came abruptly awake. His deep, dark eyes glittered grimly as one thought inscribed itself in indelible ink across the page of his mind.

The Doomsman's hand moved to rest on his wife's shoulder; Vairë woke up in an instant, her bright golden eyes wide. "What is it?"

"We must go to Máhanaxar with all speed," Mandos answered. "There must be a council taken. Something is stirring just beyond us."

----

Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, stood just outside the gates of Valimar, overlooked by the green hill of Ezellohar, which was crowned by the withered remains of the once-glorious Trees, Telperion and Laurëlin. It was there that the mighty Thrones of the Valar were set, and that many councils had been taken in times of need. This was one of those times.

Mandos surveyed the Ring in silence, moving up to his own throne and seating himself to wait. Vairë took her own place right across from him. They did not have to wait for long; soon eight obscure figures came into sight within the Ring, and hoofbeats in the distance heralded the arrival of more. The eight vague shapes took the forms of four men and four women, who each took up a place in front of one of the thrones.

Manwë, tall and regal, dressed all in blue, took the most splendid seat, while his white-clad wife, Varda, stood at his right side. Ulmo's garb glittered like silvery fishes' scales, and clinked quietly as he moved to his place at Manwë's left side. Yavanna stood next to Varda, robed all in bright green; her husband, Aulë, wearing a tunic and breeches of iron-grey, stood patiently at Ulmo's left.

Mandos' younger sister, Nienna, cast back the hood of the coal-black cloak she wore over her dark indigo dress as she stepped in front of the throne at Yavanna's right. Estë stood in between her two sisters-in-law, Nienna and Vairë; her light grey skirt whispered over the grass. Her similarly grey-clad husband, Lórien, took up a place on Mandos' left side.

A few minutes later, four more figures – two on foot, two on horseback – came swiftly to join the others. Tulkas and Nessa ran lightly to their seats, and Oromë (clad in a cloak of crimson over a cream-colored tunic and a red tartan kilt) and Vána (wearing a dress the hue of pale pink roses) climbed down from the Huntsman's stallion, Nahar, before taking their own places. Now the Ring was complete, and the council could begin.

"Why have you summoned us here, Námo?" Manwë asked, his pale blue eyes boring into those of the Doomsman.

"The fates of all who dwell beneath the heavens will soon be at stake," Mandos answered grimly. "We must summon together all peoples of all races of Valinor and Middle-earth – _immediately._ Morgoth's evil is rising up again, greater and more terrible than ever before, even when his will was bent against Elrond Peredhel in the Ages of the Sun in Middle-earth; only in the unity of all can he be conquered now." He paused for a moment before plunging straight to the heart of the matter.

"The Day of Doom is coming."

As that sentence's last echoes faded, the Valar fell to anxious whisperings. The very night seemed to grow darker around them. Manwë was the first to speak again.

"We must act swiftly," he said insistently. "Námo, you know more about this than all the rest of us together. What must we do?"

"We must alert all who may hear!" Mandos answered. "Each of us must spread the word throughout our own realms." He then turned to Oromë, and spoke to him alone.

"Make the Valaróma shout! Sound your horn – rouse the Dead!"

----

_Thunder and drums!_

Nahar's hoofs tore at the lush grass and rich soil of the hills of Valinor, as Oromë rode as though he were pursuing Morgoth himself. The Undying Lands rang with the voice of the Valaróma and the pounding of urgent hoofbeats. No-one could say they had not heard it. "Hunters, ride now!" came the repeated cry. "The Darkness is rising!"

"Dreamers, awake!"

The voice blazed through the minds of those who slept in the gardens of Estë and Lórien. The elves and some Maiar jolted upright, staring all around them in alarm as the Dream-lord whirled into sight, his face pale with desperation.

"Up, up, get up! Your doom is at hand!" He pulled half-asleep people to their feet even as they cried out in confusion, but Lórien would not reply. Not yet.

"Hark to your King!"

Manwë rushed through the halls of Ilmarin like a howling storm. The many Maiar whose duty it was to serve under the Wind-lord and his wife leapt to obey his orders. "Prepare to join in war! Ilmarin to me!"

"Slain ones, take heed!"

Mandos' voice echoed all around the cavernous chambers of his Halls, alerting Elves and Men, without distinction. "Listen to me! Long have you lingered here in wait of the Last Hours. Your dormancy is at its end! Take back your lives, and take up arms! Doom's-day is nigh!"

"Halt in your paths!"

Varda's voice lifted to the furthest reaches of the heavens as she beseeched all those who traversed the skies at her bidding: those who steered the Sun and Moon, and the Morning and Evening Star. "Arien, Tilion, Eärendil, return now to Valinor! Come down and rally! The end is upon us!"

----

Sleep was forsaken in Valinor that night. The whole realm was in turmoil; people flocked to the city of Valimar from North, South, East and West. The Moon disappeared from the skies without warning, and Eärendil became a comet, with the Silmaril's light burning in his wake as he streaked back down toward the earth in mid-flight. All of the other stars quivered and were extinguished; the Sun would not rise in the morning.

The elves marched out from all corners of Valinor, with bows, swords and spears held up high, led by their warriors, Elrond, Maglor, Glorfindel, Celeborn and Thranduil; and they sang as they came, a song to make even the most timid person leap boldly out to join the throng: "O for a voice like thunder, and a tongue to drown the throat of war!"

The green hills all trembled beneath the thunder of a thousand hoofs, as the Hunters rode to swell the army's ranks. And the Dead arrived from Mandos' keep, led by their Kings, and the greatest warriors who had died: not counted the least among them were Fingolfin, Turgon, Gil-galad, six of the sons of Fëanor (who had long since repented of their sin and done penance), Tuor, Turin, Húrin, Beren, Elendil, Anárion, Isildur, Denethor, Boromir, Helm Hammerhand, Théoden, Éowyn, and Aragorn Elessar.

Every spirit was a warrior; fathers and mothers, sons and daughters alike wielded blazing weapons. Those who had perished at young ages were now as they would have been in adulthood; the elderly and the feeble were returned to their prime of life and the peak of their strength. They rejoiced at meeting the kindred who had been lost to them by death, and for a time the impending war was forgotten in the revelry of love.

----

Elrond Peredhel stared all around him, awed at the wonderful spectacle of reunited souls. Long-lost friends and family were embracing, laughing and weeping. Maglor and his six brothers were tangled in a group hug; Elwing had her arms wrapped tight around her own brothers, Eluréd and Elurín; and running to join them was a figure that Elrond knew in an instant was…

"_Elros!_"

He leapt forward with a cry, even as his brother turned at the sound of his name. The one-time Lord of Imladris and the first King of Númenor struggled toward each other through the throng of Elves and Men, as well as many Dwarfs and Hobbits. They literally fell into each other's arms, sobbing in bliss. When Elrond looked up, over his twin's shoulder, he saw Mandos and Lorien standing just beyond them, beaming.

A mere few weeks after the assembly of the Valar, every soul in the Undying Lands was gathered in Valimar. They clustered in the great white courtyard, and those who couldn't find any standing room there waited on the golden stairs and streets below, watching and waiting as the Valar spoke among themselves.

"But what of those in Middle-earth?" Yavanna asked Mandos. "The Men and the Dwarfs who still live – do they not have their own part in this war as well?"

"I had not disremembered them," the Doomsman nodded. "There must be a journey taken to bring those people to our shores." He raised his voice, shouting out loud for all to hear and take heed. "Children of Eru! There are many yet who must join forces with us from across the Great Sea. Who will make the voyage to deliver them?"

"I will," four voices called out in simultaneous reply.

A quartet of elves, three dark-haired, the other silver-haired and curiously bearded, came forth to stand before the Valar, as the multitude parted quickly to give them space to advance: Elrond, Maglor, Eärendil the Mariner and Cirdan the Shipwright. All of the elves dropped to their knees and bowed their heads in reverence, and Manwë spoke gently to them.

"The blessings of all of the Valar shall go with you," he smiled, laying a hand tenderly on each elf's shoulder in turn. "Ulmo and I will ascertain that you arrive in Middle-earth as quickly and as safely as possible."

"Thank you, sire," they all murmured together.

"If it is your will, my lord, we will prepare to make sail immediately," the mariner added, looking up.

"That would be of great benefit to us all," Manwë told him with a nod. "Thank you. Both of you are dismissed."

----

Some time later, a group assembled in Alqualondë to see the journeyers off, in a morning that had come without a dawn. Elros was there, and his mother, Elwing the White, and Tuor and Idril, the Mariner's parents; as well there was Gil-galad, who had ever been a friend to Cirdan. But first and foremost came Manwë, Varda, Ulmo and Aulë.

They stood on the dock gazing out at the fleet of swift white and silver elven ships (with _Vingilot_ among them), and the Wind-lord spoke to all those who were chosen to man the vessels' helms, blessing their crossing and bidding them farewell. Varda told Eärendil to sail ahead of the fleet with_ Vingilot_, so that the Silmaril would be a beacon of hope when it was seen from the east.

Ulmo then called forth his two most faithful Maiar – Ossë (a male with sea-green skin, and hair like flying foam) and his wife, Uinen (a female with pale blue skin and hair that flowed and rippled like the water) – and instructed them to wait for his commands. Aulë stepped confidently onto the deck of _Vingilot_ to stand beside Eärendil, for he was to make the journey as well, and speak to his own people.

As the helmsmen of the fleet tightened their hands upon the ships' tillers, Manwë raised a hand to the skies, and a great wind howled forth to billow the unfurled sails. Ulmo called his orders to Ossë, and the Maia, eager and reckless, caused a momentous wave to surge up and rush the ships out of the harbor. Uinen was quick to calm her husband's foolhardy spirit, before he could brew up any further waves and cause a storm. Those still standing on the docks watched in silence as the hope of Valinor sailed swiftly to gather warriors to further expand the ranks of the militia of the Light. They would need everyone they could to face the Darkness yet to come.


	2. Part II

**Part II: Fire and Water**

So the fleet sped eastward, like a flock of white and silver birds sailing a deep black sky. The Silmaril blazed before them all, a guiding star drifting on the inky sea. The wind that drove them never ceased, and Ossë and Uinen followed them; the tempest-loving one of the two granted them speed on the waves, and the other made certain that her husband did not grow too wild.

"Lord Aulë," Eärendil inquired as he handled _Vingilot_'s tiller, "do your people know that they must travel west? They surely live far from any harbors."

"Irmo has sent visions of forewarning to the men and dwarfs alike, as well as the people known as hobbits, or _periannath_ in your tongue," the Vala informed him calmly. "Worry not; this will not take as great a span of time as you may think."

The mariner nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the due eastern horizon. "Yes, sire."

----

Aboard his own ship, _Elwing_, Elrond shivered a bit in his sleep, pulling his blanket more tightly round himself.He swam in and out of visions shrouded in mystery. Varda's sweet, compassionate voice reached his ears like the gentle music of a flute.

"_You have the blood of the angels in you, my nephew… even if you do not realize it now, it will become real for you in the end…"_

What do you mean?_ Elrond cried in confusion. _What will become real?

"_Wait and see, Elrond… Star-dome, Maia-born…"_

_Her voice began to fade, even as the elf called out after her in desperation. He could feel himself drifting upward toward consciousness, and he fought against the irresistible pull on his mind, but all in vain._

With a jolt Elrond came awake, sweating and shuddering in the aftermath of the uncanny dream. He turned onto his side, letting his eyes glaze over again, and when he woke up in the morning, Varda's message had faded from his memory without a trace.

----

"Land ho, dead ahead as she goes!"

The shout descended from _Vingilot_'s crow's-nest and reached the sharp ears of Eärendil, who called up in answer, "Well spotted, Cirdan!"

The lamps of Mithlond flickered faintly in the infinite blackness of the starless night, and the fleet from Valinor homed in on the pale golden pinpricks of light. As the long-empty elven harbor drew nearer, the keen eyes of the elves could discern many shadowy forms standing on the quayside. Some were tall, and others were only half as high. All of them were waiting.

_Vingilot_ was the first vessel to reach the port, and by the Silmaril's light Eärendil beheld the men, dwarfs and hobbits grouped on the docks. He glanced up and inclined his head as Aulë moved up to his right side, and all of the waiting figures bowed reverently low to the ground. They crept back like a receding tide as the Vala leapt from the ship's deck to the pier.

"People of Arda!" he cried, his voice ringing forth like a great brazen bell. "You all know why you have been summoned to gather here. Your might is needed in Valinor to contest against the great Darkness, which is arising even as I speak. Morgoth is coming. The Day of Doom is near."

This sent the Men, Dwarfs and Hobbits into fearful chatter. Aulë lifted one leather-gloved hand, and they fell silent again.

"We will need every ounce of your strength to vanquish the Dark One," he continued. "I am well aware that you are frightened; your alarm is not unfounded. Indeed, even _I _hold a share in your fear, and I am not ashamed to confess it. For any one of us not to be afraid – with the notable exception of my kinsman, the Vala Tulkas – we would be fools."

"What would you have us do, my lord?" a voice spoke up from the dwarfish sector of the crowd. The voice was gruff, as all dwarf-voices were, but this one had an oddly feminine quality to it.

The rest of the throng stared at one small person who took a few paces forward, looking expectantly up into the deep, glinting eyes of Aulë. The Vala dropped to his knees before the one who had spoken (and even then he was taller than all of the dwarfs), looking into the bright blue eyes that were all but fully concealed behind facial hair and a helmet.

"Gilda, daughter of Gimli the Fifth?" he asked.

"Yes, sire." The dwarf-maiden bowed, and Aulë smiled. Dwarf females were incredibly rare – they only made up roughly one-third of the population, if even that – but they were every bit as hardy and steadfast as their male kindred. Every one of them would be a very valuable asset in the war.

Aulë clapped Gilda gently on the shoulder before rising and speaking to everyone again. "I would have you all come with us to Valinor," he proclaimed. "The war is beginning to brew even now, I fear. We must reach the Blessed Realm as soon as possible, for the sake of all. Come now and board the fleet – we set sail immediately!"

----

Every ship was filled to its capacity with people of all races. The armada now sped in the direction which the Sun had once sunk in the evening, with only the spiritual magnetism of Valinor itself to direct them, and Manwë, Ossë and Uinen to grant them speed. Sleep was found only rarely, but Lórien often lingered awhile with each dreamer, to give words of hope and support through the visions he sent.

No-one could tell how much time had passed, but there came at some point a weird noise of something crackling ominously around the ships. Eärendil stared over _Vingilot_'s rail in trepidation, seeing by the light of the Silmaril. The sea had frozen solid around the ships. The fleet was trapped!

"It has begun," said Aulë grimly, coming to stand beside the mariner. "Morgoth is trying to hinder us, and buy himself more time to ready his own forces. We must keep moving – the ice has to be broken, or melted."

Hearing them from the deck of _Elwing_, Elrond stared mutely down at the ring he wore on his right hand; an ornate golden band set with a blood-colored ruby. Narya it was named, the Ring of Fire. He had borne it for many millennia, and used it more than once to battle with Morgoth himself; it had helped him in saving the life of his son-in-law, Voronwë, as well. Now as he stared intently at the crimson jewel, it seemed to take on a radiance of its own, as it always had when the essence of Fire was needed.

The half-elf leapt over his ship's railing, using a rope to clamber down to the chill surface of the frigid sea. Already the dwarfs were busy making themselves useful, hacking the ice apart with their broad, double-bladed axes. But the water just seemed to freeze over again every time the surface was broken. Progress was almost nonexistent.

Elrond knelt anxiously upon the ice, placing both hands palms-downward on the smooth, cold surface, and closing his eyes in concentration. He summoned Fire, nothing of a new practice, and smiled when the ice beneath his hands turned to slush. When water began to seep into his clothing he moved hastily to another spot and repeated his actions. Aulë was there to assist him, and the two friends quickly set about freeing the icebound ships.

Elrond had just applied a careful measure of heat to an area of ice when he felt water slap around his right foot. Glancing behind him, the elf scrambled to get up when he saw that his foot had sunk into a deep fracture in the ice. He leaned backward and pulled, with no such luck; his foot was held fast. Even when Eärendil rushed to help, they fared no better. Aulë crouched beside the half-elf and melted the ice around his foot, and at last he could pull himself free. But then disaster struck.

Elrond suddenly found himself neck-deep in the ice-cold water, surrounded by fragments of broken ice. His father held him firmly by the wrist; it appeared that only this had kept him from being entirely submerged. But something had also grasped the elf's ankle in the same instant, and was pulling him forcefully downward.

Elrond was caught in the middle of a vicious tug-of-war. Eärendil and Aulë strove to haul the half-elf back onto the ice, while the thing in the water, whatever it was, was hell-bent on dragging him under. More than once his head vanished beneath the surface for a short time before he was heaved upward again, coughing and gagging on the cold, briny water. And was it only his imagination, or was the hole around him slowly shrinking?

He was tugged violently underwater, completely this time, as his father cried his name in dismay. Frantically Elrond clawed at the water above him (there was more and more of it with each second gone), trying to reach his father's groping hand. His fingertips had just barely brushed it when the water's surface fully congealed, trapping him beneath a thick, green sheet of ice, with Eärendil's hand still clutching his own.

Above him, Aulë positioned his hands on the ice around Eärendil's wrist at the same time as he sent a thought to the submerged elf: _Elrond, remember Voronwë! I will help you!_

Elrond struggled to hold his breath as he strained against the fierce downward towing of whatever was trying to drown him. Narya's ruby flared with scarlet light as the elf called on the might of Fire, first reaching down to his bound ankle and hoping to scorch or burn away the thing that held him. His fingertips met with something cold and slippery, like a thick rope or tendril of some sort. The water churned with bubbles as the whatever-it-was released him, leaving behind a searing pain in his ankle and a cloud of what could only be blood.

The half-elf reached upward again, now striving to melt the ice above him as Aulë did the same. With their combined powers, it was the work of a moment; Aulë and Eärendil both grasped Elrond's wrists in their strong hands and pulled him up, while Elrond swam up awkwardly with one good leg and one injured ankle. He sobbed for breath when his head came above the surface at last.

Aulë was quick to pull the elf onto firmer ground (or ice, as it were), his dark eyes wide with alarm at the sight of his kinsman's ankle and foot. Elrond turned his head a little to look at the injury himself, and immediately felt nauseous. His clothing and skin had been literally ripped away, leaving behind raw flesh and warm blood. A _lot _of blood.

A whirl of pale grey and a flowery scent in the air heralded the arrival of Estë. The Valië knelt at Elrond's side without a word, gently laying her hands on the elf's bloody ankle as he placed his own hands atop of hers. Her fingers drenched in the red liquid, Estë poured out her healing energy together with her brother-in-law, and the gaping wound eventually closed. Both healers rinsed their hands in the cold sea, and the Valië nodded mutely to the half-elf before vanishing like aromatic smoke.

Elrond climbed to his feet, uncomfortably aware of every person's eyes boring into him. Eärendil pulled him into a tight, fond embrace, weeping in gratefulness for his son's well-being. The half-elf himself was shaking, more from relief than the cold. Steam rose from his dripping body, and slush was rapidly melting into his hair. They both withdrew after a time, and Elrond murmured, "We need to keep moving. Time is running shorter than we know."

----

The arrival of the ships in Alqualondë was an uncannily solemn affair. Manwë and Varda greeted the new arrivals graciously, but gravely; and Mandos led them all out to the wide hills of Valinor. By the Star-Queen's radiance, everyone could see the gathering troops of the warriors of the Light. The army seemed to stretch on for miles; all the better for them, in the face of what was to come.

The Doomsman drew Elrond to his side, speaking in soft, insistent tones.

"You know things that many of the people here do not," he said. "In your two lives, and especially the first, you have seen sides of their hearts that they themselves are not aware of. Many people who know, or knew, nothing but peace in their lives were once warriors in times of darkness. You know what they are capable of, you can see the embers of great courage in their souls, and you must be the one to kindle those flames. Go."


	3. Part III

**Part III: The War Begins**

As Elrond nodded, drew in a deep breath and started down the hill toward the great army, Mandos held out his right hand, palm upward. A golden hourglass appeared, hovering in the air just above his hand; all the sand was in the bottom bulb. The Vala turned the glass over in a smooth movement, staring into the sand as it began its descent. He ignored the other Valar all around him, who were busily organizing the Children of Eru and Aulë into ranks, and speaking to them.

Elrond softly approached the first familiar face in the militia: a male hobbit in his middle years, with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. The elf smiled as he stooped a little to place a hand upon the halfling's shoulder, and gently spoke his name: "Frodo, son of Drogo?"

"Yes?" Frodo's eyes held quiet respect along with mild surprise and curiosity. But the elf could plainly see the fear lurking just behind all that, trying and failing to remain unseen. Elrond's eyes radiated calm optimism and benevolence as he spoke again.

"You've never seen a battle in your life, have you?" he inquired. He nodded when Frodo shook his head. "Of course not. You were born in the ages of peace, long after the defeat of Sauron. But I have seen another lifetime of yours; a lifetime in which Sauron's iniquity lingered on, long past what only appeared to be his downfall. His life-force was bound in a ring, a Ring with a mind and a will of its own.

"Down through the years, that Ring found its way into your hands. You carried It into my home, where a council met to decide the Ring's fate. We decided that It should be wholly destroyed, and you were the first to rise to the task. With a Fellowship of eight comrades at your side, an elven blade tucked in your belt and the Ring on a chain around your neck, you set out on a perilous journey into the unknown.

"And as the months passed, even when all hope had faded and all but one of your friends of the Fellowship were forced to part ways with you, you struggled onward. You walked into the land of Mordor, up the slopes of the Mountain of Fire and into the heart of Doom itself. The Ring was utterly destroyed, and you survived, although a little less than whole. Your right middle finger was lost, but it was a small price to pay for the fate of the world as a whole."

Frodo's eyes were wide with awe at this revelation. "You saw that, sir?"

Elrond nodded. "Oh, yes. And you still have that courage deep inside of you, even though you may not be able to sense it. As a very wise woman once told you on your Quest, _even the smallest person can change the course of the future_. You have that chance once more, right now."

Above, Mandos smiled to himself, still watching the sand pour…

Elrond moved on through the ranks, pausing here and there to offer words of advice to all those who needed it – humans, elves, dwarfs and hobbits alike, of both the living and the once-dead. He spoke to Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, telling her of her competency as a Shieldmaiden; to Boromir son of Denethor, of his willingness to sacrifice his own life for the sake of his endangered kinsmen; to Thorin Oakenshield, of his courage in leading the dwarfs of Erebor to victory against the huge, malicious dragon, Smaug. He halted before Maedhros, son of Fëanor, smiling up into the face of his old friend and one-time enemy. The handless redhead stared quietly back, eyebrows slightly raised.

"Maedhros," the half-elf began, "whether as a friend or an enemy to me, you have always been a great warrior. You have a strength of will that few can rival, and yet you also have compassion. That may have come about only after your most untimely demise, but still, it is a part of your heart. However, now is the time to again stir up the warrior blood in you. I've seen you in war; I know what you are capable of doing when your spirit is properly roused. Call on that old strength again, my friend."

Maedhros smiled a little, but then stared dolefully down at his blunt wrist stumps. "How can I hope to wield a sword when I don't even have any – _hands!_"

The last word came out as a yelp of shock, as both elves gaped at Maedhros' wrists as he lifted them to eye level. The stitched-up sleeves of the redhead's tunic were ripping apart, and the flesh and bone underneath were expanding, growing, and taking on a new shape. Two flat, rounded, lined protrusions formed, and each branched out five separate times. These new digits were each jointed twice, and ended with fingernails.

Maedhros was struck dumb with disbelief at the sight of his pristine appendages. Slowly, carefully he moved each finger and thumb, curling and uncurling his fists and testing his wrists. He reached down to grip the hilt of the sword he wore, drawing the weapon out of its sheath and staring at it, while Elrond tried to look as though this had not been an utter shock to him as well.

The two comrades looked up sharply as a tall, dark figure appeared at Elrond's right side. Mandos (still holding the hourglass, now in his left palm) smiled rather nonchalantly at the elves, who hurried to bow. He raised them both to their feet, and swiveled his gaze to Maedhros; he gave the son of Fëanor a calm pat on the shoulder, and nodded courteously to Elrond before vanishing in a deep violet and cerulean swirl. Maedhros stared after him, looking quite awed and somewhat mortified.

"Well," he managed after a minute or two, grinning feebly, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

----

Elsewhere, Aulë stood before a great brigade of his progeny, the dwarfs; all of them were gazing up at him in silence as he spoke.

"Your time is _now,_ my children!" he cried. "This night you shall join with the Children of Eru to vanquish the Darkness once and for all! It is not to our own glory that we shall rise in war – nay, not even to the glory of my kindred, the Valar. I know well that you call me Father and Maker, yet I am still a son to the Creator of All. It is to His glory that we come to battle now! For Eru Ilúvatar!"

"_For Eru Ilúvatar!_" The answering roar rose from thousands of throats as countless keen axeblades shone in Varda's radiance, the only light to penetrate the absolute darkness that now blanketed all of Arda. An echo trumpeted forth from the elves, men and others, and Mandos, standing among the Valar and Maiar, knew that the moment was right. The sand in his hourglass was still; he flung the vessel aside, where it smashed open on the ground and disappeared.

In that very instant, a terrible voice shook the earth to its foundations.

_**Fools, all of you! The earth will be MINE, as it was always meant to be! Your stand is futile. Submit to me and you may keep your lives!**_

"Never!" shouted Manwë in answer. To his troops he called, "Stand firm!"

_**Stand DOWN, if any of you value your lives!**_

Varda's light then revealed what was approaching from the utmost West. The blackness had substance now; it flowed and slunk forward like an evil tide, with a million gleaming scarlet eyes. There were huge, hairy beasts with dripping fangs, wraithlike forms in long black robes, horned and winged demons, hideous Uruk-hai and orcs, and many horrific, enormous spiders; all that nightmares were made of. There were even a very few elven-looking figures. The starless heavens thrummed with the beating of myriad wings: great flocks of murderous ravens, crows and other black carrion-birds had gathered in alliance with the forces of Darkness.

But the greatest, and the most terrible by far, was the Lord of the Void himself.

Towering a hundred feet above even the tallest Vala, Morgoth's red eyes blazed like twin fires of blood, madness and deepest loathing. In one massive fist he gripped the long iron shaft of his black war-hammer; the other was raised in a gesture of defiance to Manwë. A sickening smile twisted his bloody lips.

His body bore the gruesome evidence of many past battles; his left leg was deeply scored, his face was cleft in two. But the most grievous injury, and the most recent, was the great hole in his belly, crusted with dried black blood. An Icicle had once spitted him through, but had melted away long since in the flames of Morgoth's rage. That fight had been over for many millennia, but the pain had never once subsided, even the very least amount.

Manwë turned briefly to nod to his kin, the Valar and Maiar, and they all began to change at once, growing swiftly, escalating in height until each of them was on eye level with the Dark Lord. The others below were like insects in comparison, completely dwarfed by the holy (and most unholy) beings. Now, not only Varda's body was ablaze with light; every Vala and Maia in the army of Manwë literally shone with their strength and pure divinity. But they were not the only ones.

Several gasps arose in perfect unison from a select group of people in the mighty throng: Lúthien Tinúviel, Dior Eluchil, Elwing, Eluréd, Elurín, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen and Caranel II. These were the descendants of Melian, a Maia who had fallen in love with a king of elves and borne his daughter, Lúthien, who some time later wed a mortal man and birthed Dior Eluchil; and the line went on. The light of the Holy Ones, the Ainur, blazed out strongly in them, and all those who had come after – the lineage of the Half-elven.

The voice of Manwë tugged insistently at the minds of the half-elves, who came quietly, obediently forward to stand amid the Ainur; all except for Elwing, who, in the swan-body Ulmo had given her many Ages before, had been chosen to lead the eagles and the other birds of Manwë in the air. She hovered high, even above the Valar's heads, on white and silver wings, awaiting her lord's commands.

Manwë closed his eyes for a moment, as a voice slipped effortlessly into his mind. It was the voice of Mandos, whispering strange forewarnings to him. _Do not fear, Manwë; this war will not engulf the earth in blood. Rather, it will be the opposite – even when our foes perish, they will leave scarcely anything of themselves behind._

The Wind-lord nodded mutely, completely trusting his omniscient kinsman. He raised his eyes to look into the scarred, blood-covered face of his former brother, calmly matching a tranquil pale-blue stare for a furious blood-red glare. They came to an agreement of sorts, both nodding in unison and sending orders to their minions.

_Forward._

_**Attack.**_

The armies met.

The clarion cries of the horns of elves, men, dwarfs and hobbits were drowned out by the resounding voice of the Valaróma. Swords clashed upon claws, and fangs were deflected by shields. Eagles' shrieks and ravens' harsh caws filled the air as feathers rained down from the skies, all of them iridescent and black. Arrows hissed shrilly through the sky, all meeting their targets, in the bodies of the warriors of Manwë and Morgoth alike. But the outcome was unexpected by all (save one).

Finwë, one of the first of the Firstborn of Eru, stared down in shock as a barbed arrow hit him squarely in the chest. He saw the head enter his chest, followed by the wooden shaft, and finally the feathered flights. The whole thing disappeared into him, leaving behind… nothing. No wound, no pain, not a tear in his clothing. And yet the many enemies he had seen, struck by elven arrows, had all burst into ashes! Was this battle to be truly and fully bloodless?

Standing beside his father, Fëanor couldn't hold back a shudder at the sight of the drifting dust. He himself had perished in much the same manner, his body crumbling to ash as his spirit fled in flame to the Halls of Mandos. His name's meaning, Spirit of Fire, had been realized only in that moment. But today he, a former Kinslayer and a father of the same, pushed the past from his mind as he cut down foe after foe with his own seven sons at his side. For the glory of Eru, they hewed a path into the thick of the war.


	4. Part IV

**Part IV: Ashes to Ashes**

Now Arda itself was in turmoil, each element reacting to the fury of the battle in its own way. The oceans boiled, and rivers and streams overwhelmed their banks; earthquakes levelled valleys and crumbled mountains. The air rolled and rippled with the frenzy of the warring birds above. Every living animal of the earth and the sea tried to hide, but their attempts were fruitless. Burrows flooded, nests were torn asunder, and dens caved in. The beasts' howling, shrieking and chattering added layer upon layer to the hellish din.

On and onward strove the forces of Light and Shadow, in that unnatural, bloodless, one-sided war. The Children of Eru and Aulë prevailed over the minions of Morgoth in every individual conflict, and Valinor's green land was soon coated thickly with the cinders of slain enemies. There was one elf, however, who was not on Manwë's side.

Formerly an ellon of Imladris, this elf had long black hair, cruel grey eyes and a hideous scar on the left side of his chin, the relic of some battle long ago. His name was Halanor, and he was a proud servant of the Dark Lord. He had been thus ever since his spirit was snatched into the Void by Morgoth himself, in the infinitesimal moment after his demise and before Mandos could lay claim to him. Now, he swung his sword ruthlessly through the bodies of those who had, many, many years before, been his kindred.

He spotted her before she noticed: a tall elleth with flowing silver hair, fighting alongside of a black-haired ellon who wore a brilliant jewel in an ornately-wrought circlet upon his brow. The elleth soon turned around and saw Halanor, and her eyes grew even icier than they already were, as he made his way deliberately toward her.

Celebrían's chilly eyes looked her old enemy up and down, and her mouth slowly relaxed into a weirdly sweet smile. She slew the other evil creatures around her almost carelessly, with her eyes upon the elf who had once tried to rape her – and consequently, murder her – on her wedding night.

Halanor smirked, raising his sword as the two of them neared each other. "Say goodnight, my sweet!"

The weapon plunged straight into Celebrían's chest before she could move. She stared in silence at the glittering blade, half of its length buried between her ribs, and swayed for a moment where she stood. But suddenly she was completely steady. Her hand moved like a striking snake, effortlessly dislodging the sword from her body (_How,_ Halanor cried out inwardly, _how could she possibly be unharmed?_) and impaling her adversary on her own weapon.

"Goodnight," she smiled evenly, watching calmly as the ellon burst into ashes before her eyes. She blew a tiny cinder off of the blade of her sword, and swiftly rejoined the battle.

----

Samwise Gamgee was a simple hobbit, a gardener at heart. He had little if any knowledge of warfare, having seen none in his lifetime. But here he was, suddenly whisked from the dead and set on a battlefield, with a sword in his hand and the words of an elven stranger in his heart.

Elrond had told him a thrilling tale of an adventure in some different lifetime, a story of an evil Ring that had been carried across the world, and thrown into a huge mountain full of liquid fire. Sam's master, Frodo, had been the one to bear the Ring, and Sam had never left his side through the whole perilous journey. When Frodo had been stung by a horrific giant-sized spider named Shelob, Sam had slain the creature himself to rescue his friend.

And speaking of spiders…

Sam felt his body go numb with fear. A monstrous arachnid, ten times as large as the one Elrond had described, was bearing steadily down on him. The terrible beast was leaving a trail of thick, material darkness in its wake, and vomited the same horrific stuff out before it. All eight of its black eyes glistened ominously, and a twelve-inch, needle-sharp stinger protruded from the back end of its abdomen. Eru knew how much poison the thing held.

The spider's name was Ungoliant, the Gloomweaver. She had been a servant of Morgoth since the world was young, and it was with her aid that the Dark Lord had first plunged Valinor into darkness, in the Years of the Trees. She had been banished to the Void many ages ago, and now roamed the earth again in all her terrible splendour. Her target was the fear-frozen halfling standing in her path. He was plump; his body would provide her with a splendid meal or two.

Sam clearly saw the hunger in the creature's gaze, and his mind abruptly cleared as a soft, urgent voice pealed out within it: _You have done this before, you can do it again! Do not doubt yourself. I know the strength within you!_

The hobbit nodded once, his jaw setting in resolution as his fist clenched on the hilt of his sword. He stood his ground as Ungoliant came forward single-mindedly, and they stared each other down. Eight eyes locked with two, and the halfling leapt with a shout, piercing one of his enemy's eyes. Ashes sprayed out from the pricked bubble, and Ungoliant gave a screech of wrath, rearing up on four of her long back legs, and lunging at him with her gruesome mandibles.

Sam jumped back, thrusting his sword forward and bursting a second great eye open. His opponent hissed threateningly, scrabbling forward and jabbing her deadly stinger at him. The hobbit rolled from side to side, narrowly avoiding death each time. He plunged his blade upward into her soft underbelly, and was rewarded by an ear-splitting wail and a shower of ashes.

Sam climbed upright in the dusty grey rain, awed at his own feat. He, a humble gardener, had single-handedly slain a hideous monster, even greater than the one he allegedly had killed in a lifetime he couldn't remember having. Heartened by this, he dove readily back into the mêlée.

----

Varda and Sauron locked eyes fiercely across the battleground. The Valië's countenance was grave and calm, while the Maia's blood-hued eyes betrayed his unbridled, passionate rage. They approached each other purposefully, while the people below scattered, afraid to be trampled by their great footfalls.

"We meet again," said the Star-Queen coldly, staring into her adversary's smirking face.

Sauron nodded, absently brushing an unruly strand of golden hair out of his face. He kept his head lowered for quite a time longer than what would be considered customary; those silver eyes of hers secretly frightened him.

Varda allowed herself a fleeting smile, but never once did she let her guard drop. Both of them knew a fight was imminent and inevitable. The question was this: who would be the first to strike?

Sauron swiftly acted upon the opportunity, and sent a black bolt of lightning, emanating darkness, straight for his opponent's heart. Varda deflected it almost casually, with a flick of her wrist, and retaliated. A beam of pure, white light struck Sauron in the stomach: she had knowingly missed his heart. She waited mutely as the Maia straightened up, gasping.

"Is that the best you can do?" he challenged.

Varda calmly shed her body, allowing her true spirit to be known, though there was very little change in her appearance. Her light blazed forth all the stronger, and she was made indistinct – a hovering, brilliant, shapeless mass of pure Light. Sauron cringed, shielding his eyes from the Valië in all her glory. Then he, too, abandoned his corporeal form, and revealed his true nature, Darkness, which for so long had been obscured by his fair guise.

They came together a hundred feet in the air, complete opposites mingling as their spirits vied for victory. To observers, it was like watching the Sun resisting the Moon's eclipse; light and dark formed a great orb, which was rippling, writhing, and utterly at odds with itself.

The black soul of Sauron and the white one of Varda clashed completely silently, each winning and losing by turns as they tried to cast each other out. The Valië moved with the speed of light, but the Maia possessed the speed of darkness. For no matter how fast Light travels it finds that the Darkness has always gotten there first, and is waiting for it. Yet Varda's might was greater than that of her opponent, so the two were fairly well matched.

But Varda suddenly knew that what she had to do to win was not what she had just been doing. It was the opposite.

She folded herself around him, pulling Sauron ever closer to her. The Maia shrieked and writhed, but the Valië didn't stop. She surrounded her enemy, embraced him, compressed him into the smallest space imaginable, and then… she destroyed him.

Her goodness, her purity, her Light lanced through Sauron's entire being, driving out the evil, the corruption and the Darkness – everything of which he was made. His spirit rose up in a howl of rage and anguish, and Sauron, the servant of Morgoth, was extinguished like a candle in the wind, never to be rekindled.

----

Morgoth snarled aloud in fury, baring his great yellow fangs. No matter how many of the warriors of Manwë he crushed beneath his war-hammer, they all refused to die! Nothing hindered them! And yet his own warriors were dying by the thousands, annihilated before his very eyes!

Murderous intentions flamed in the Dark Lord's heart as he scoured the battleground with his eyes, and gave a purely corrupted smile. His sight was fixed upon one Maia female in the multitude, a being fully wreathed in bright golden flames. He smashed aside all others who barred his path, and ignored the ashes floating out from his own injuries. He trained his unwavering gaze on Arien.

Mandos saw the Dark Lord coming, but a cry of warning stuck in his throat. He could not even send out a thought, nor make a move to halt the ex-Vala's deadly progress. Why in all of Eä was Eru keeping him from giving Arien the chance to flee for her life? He could only watch in helpless horror as the looming black shape of Morgoth slowly closed in on the flame-bright figure of his prey.

Arien did not see Morgoth until he was upon her. The Dark Lord swooped downward like some overgrown bat, spinning the Maia around to face him, and crushing her to his body with his powerful arms. Desperately she writhed against him, letting her searing fire lick all along his skin, but he only laughed at her efforts and absorbed her power into himself, feeding the flames of his own dark might with her frenetic heat.

**_The more you struggle,_ **he hissed into her ear,** _the more I will take from you. Surrender, and you may keep your life. Resist, and I will completely destroy you._**

Even now Arien could feel her energy draining, being sapped away by the Dark Lord. He leered victoriously as her efforts lessened, and she fell limp in his arms, even shrinking in size as her light dimmed. But both predator and victim looked up as a scream rent the air.

"_NO!_"

The yell was accompanied by a loud hissing, and Morgoth arched his back and roared as an arrow embedded itself deep in his shoulder. The long shaft was the color of silver, and its flights were white swans' feathers. The one who had fired the arrow stood a few feet away, with another shaft nocked to the glimmering white string of his silver bow. His garments were the same hue as his weapon, and a horned circlet of that metal sat on his shining, white-haired head. Rage and vengeance burned in his pale blue eyes.

"If you dare touch her again," Tilion shouted, in a strong voice that was a far cry from his usual stutter, "I will slay you where you stand!" He deliberately drew back his bowstring, showing no intention of going back on his word.

Despite her grave position, a tiny smile brushed Arien's lips. Tilion, she knew, had loved her for thousands of years. The thought that he would risk his own life to protect hers was deeply moving. Weakly she sent out a message of thanks to Tilion, and knew by the look in his eyes that he had heard her.

Tilion did not lower his bow, nor did Morgoth release his captive. Instead he turned to face his enemy, holding Arien before him, using her as a helpless, living shield. The Dark Lord grinned sadistically at the horror in the eyes of both Maiar, and did not move. He leered in evil satisfaction, waiting to see what his victim's intended saviour would do next.

------------------  
A/N: The underlined quote was borrowed from the brilliant author, Terry Pratchett. I just hope I got the phrase right.


	5. Part V

**Part V: Silver, Gold and Ebony**

Arien lifted her eyes to Tilion's face, freezing him in place with her gaze. Pain, trust, and pleading were scrawled clearly across her flaming features. The silver-clad Maia shivered inwardly with the notion that Arien was placing her very existence squarely, willingly, in his hands. A brief exchange of thoughts passed between them.

_It will not matter if you strike me; I am immortal, as are you,_ Arien insisted faintly, her eyes burning into his. _You can do me no harm._

But Tilion replied with tears glimmering evidently in his own eyes. _I could not bear the thought of even appearing to harm you. I love you, Arien. I have always loved you._

For the briefest moment, the Maia wavered in his defiance of Morgoth, the arrow nocked to his bow sliding down just a little on its string, but he just as soon steeled himself. And, most strangely though it seemed, he smiled. No… he _grinned,_ much to Arien's confusion and the Dark Lord's mounting ire.

**_What has made you so merry all of a sudden? _**Morgoth growled at him.

Tilion smirked right into his opponent's face as he replied airily, "Lord Tulkas is standing just behind you."

Morgoth's neck cricked loudly as he swiveled his head to look over his shoulder, left and right. He turned back to face Tilion, now smirking broadly himself. **_You are a liar! There is no-one there!_**

"Ahh. Unfortunately for you, my most favorite adversary, he was telling the truth," a low voice chuckled, cheerily and ominously, into the ex-Vala's ear. "I am right here."

Morgoth didn't even have time to blanch. There was a brief blur of gold out of the corner of his eye, and the ex-Vala found himself staring into a pair of gleaming hazel eyes above a grinning mouth. Tulkas laughed aloud, and the Dark Lord cringed visibly and snarled like an angered wolf, his own eyes blazing with a hot, raw hatred.

Arien did not move, having barely the energy with which to flee. Tilion held his bow still as Tulkas came to stand beside him, and never let his gaze so much as momentarily flick away from the face of the Maia he loved. A single thought fled his mind and flashed into Arien's, even as the silver-clad figure's fingers tensed on his bowstring: _No matter what happens, I love you, and I always will._

Was that a nod she gave him? Her voice whispered in faint, but fearless compliance. _Do what you must._

Tilion inclined his own head slightly in reply, drawing his arm back so that his right hand barely brushed his ear. The bowstring creaked in anticipation, yearning to snap back and let go of the arrow it held. But Morgoth still held Arien in front of him, and he still glared loathingly at Tilion and Tulkas.

The silver-clothed Maia was on the verge of finally releasing his arrow when the Wrestler cautiously placed a hand on his shoulder, murmuring into his mind, _Leave him be. I will deal with this traitor. You must get Arien away from here._ He spoke icily and out loud to the Dark Lord. "Let her go. I wish to fight with you alone."

Morgoth only paused for a moment; then he flung Arien cruelly away from him. Still frail and unsteady, she stumbled and fell forward. Tulkas caught her gently, and Tilion led her away from the pair who now intended to combat one-on-one. Seeing that Morgoth would soon be extremely well dealt with, the hunter-Maia obediently aimed his arrows toward other, much smaller enemies. Clouds of cinders floated up all around his silver-shod feet.

Tulkas cracked his knuckles, with a sound like ten mighty oaks being felled at once in an almost silent forest, and shrugged off the loose-fitting, ivory tunic he wore. He flung the garment casually aside, and it vanished in midair. He stood stripped to the waist, with his formidable muscles exposed to the world, and his wide, lighthearted grin never wavering. He held Morgoth tightly by the forearms, and the Dark Lord did the same to his nemesis, digging his nails deep into the Wrestler's skin. And far below, everyone else on the great battlefield actually stopped and watched them, waiting for the wrestling match to begin.

Tulkas balanced easily on his toes, while Morgoth's feet were planted flat on the ground. The Wrestler was totally in his element; fighting was his one passion in life. And fighting with Morgoth was a considerable benefit. The Dark Lord himself, however, was secretly terrified. Or, perhaps, not so secretly – Tulkas laughed again when he felt his adversary's body trembling beneath his strong fingers.

"I still have the same effect upon you as ever, I see," he commented lightly. "Here I have you, Morgoth, quaking down to your boots – I have not lost my touch."

Morgoth matched a scowl for the Vala's grin. **_Tonight is the night that you will always remember as the night you fell at my feet, and pleaded with me for your demise to be swift and painless!_**

"I think not," Tulkas countered him calmly. "Why should we part with the old ways after all this time? Tradition is, after all, something to be cherished." He moved like lightning as he spoke, twisting both of Morgoth's arms painfully behind his back, and winked quite cheerily. "Just like the Elder Days, is it not?"

**_Indeed,_** the ex-Vala replied derisively. He abruptly bent double, in the hopes of throwing his rival over his head and to the ground. He half-succeeded: Tulkas was thrown through the air, but he had not immediately released his hold on the Dark Lord's arms. There was an almighty SNAP, and Morgoth bellowed in pain. His right arm now hung limply down at his side, useless, broken between the elbow and the shoulder.

Tulkas landed surprisingly lightly and catlike on his feet, never letting his grin slip. "Well now, what a pity."

Morgoth made a strangled sound deep down in his throat, fairly akin to a lion suppressing a roar, and lunged at the Wrestler. Tulkas was ready; he grabbed his enemy's broken arm at the same time as he pitched his whole weight sideways. He fell, with Morgoth beneath him, as elves, men and others scrabbled urgently to get out of harm's way. The two rivals rolled and thrashed about, with Morgoth at a considerable disadvantage. But he made up for his ruined arm by using his teeth, several of which were broken, chipped or cracked.

"Now, _this_ is familiar," Tulkas chuckled idly as he grappled with his foe. "Does this not remind you of the skirmish we had in Elrond's dreams? You broke all seventeen of those teeth on me, Námo very nearly tore out your left eye, and Irmo struck you in the shoulder just as you were fleeing…"

**_Ah, yes,_** Morgoth sneered, though rather thickly, due to a swollen lower lip. **_How could I have forgotten it? _Aaauurgh!** He roared again, as pain lanced like a white-hot firebrand through his broken arm, which Tulkas had seized again and wrenched powerfully to one side. The Dark Lord's body was twisted bizarrely, his face contorted in agony and rage.

Tulkas had clambered to his feet, and now stood above his foe, who was pulling in great, sucking breaths through clenched teeth as he strove vainly to rise. The Wrestler's overly-casual smile was still quite firmly in place. "Have you had enough yet?"

**_I have scarcely begun! _**Morgoth snarled in answer. **_This time, Golden-hair, _I_ will be the one who claims victory!_**

The Dark Lord rolled over as he tried to rise, so that he was balanced on his toes and the tips of the fingers of his left hand. Then slowly, steadily, he began to change shape. Black hair bristled all over his body; his face elongated into a great, blunt muzzle; his tapered ears moved from the sides of his head to the top. His hands and feet became like immense paws, with great, glittering claws over twelve inches long. He resembled something that was part dark Vala, part bear and part wolf. Only his eyes had not changed – they were as huge, as scarlet, as loathing and evil as ever they would be.

Tulkas merely laughed and retaliated in a similar method. He crouched down to his hands and feet as golden hair spread from his face to cover his whole body; his nose and mouth lengthened as well, and two wide, pronged antlers rose like bare, sharpened tree branches from the top of his great head. His fingers and toes fused together and hardened, turning into four cloven hoofs; and a white tail grew just above his rump. Soon a splendid, golden stag with hazel eyes stood facing his adversary, a smile on his lips and keenness for battle in his heart.

Morgoth gave an echoing, bull-like bellow and lumbered forward. Tulkas leapt agilely to the side, swiftly goring the Dark Lord with his mighty antlers as he did so. Ashes sprayed from the deep gashes in Morgoth's side. The great stag cantered smoothly around his foe, and the wolf-like thing strained muscles and sinews as he twisted his body around, raking at the air with his claws.

Amid the many observers, Mandos stared gravely, silently at the unfolding spectacle. His eyes glinted like icy, impassive steel as they focused on both Tulkas and Morgoth in turn, and he gave a single bleak nod as a thought slid out of his mind as easily as a ghost.

_Doom,_ he sent. _Destiny, defeat, death. Yours is swiftly coming, Melkor Morgoth. Long have I foreseen it._

The Dark Lord froze, his head swiveling about to stare at the Lord of the Dead. Mandos' eyes neither moved nor blinked. They only _looked,_ and they looked on dreadfully calmly as Morgoth resumed his fight with his lifelong enemy.

The Dark Lord and the Wrestler writhed and tumbled, a golden body gleaming against a black one; fangs and claws clacked upon antlers and hoofs. At some point, Morgoth gave a roar of wrath and reeled back, his great, hideous head turning this way and that way as cinders poured from an empty eye socket. Half-blinded, he took a mighty swipe at Tulkas with his left hand (which was much more akin to a giant paw), but the Vala ducked out of the way, deeply gouging his enemy's side with his antlers.

Morgoth's voice reached Tulkas' ears like an avalanche of loathing and fury. **_I will crush you like an insect!_**

"I would _dearly _love to see you try that," the Wrestler chuckled. "I always enjoy laughing at your failures."

Morgoth bellowed yet again, clenching his paw-hand into a tight fist and sending it down in swift descent toward Tulkas' head. The Vala reared up onto his hind legs, tossing back his noble head, and the great fist slammed into the earth, just where his head would have been moments before. Tulkas, as he had earlier claimed, laughed willingly out loud at his foe's failure to pulverize him.

Quicker than the eye could follow, he reverted to his Valarin form, and grabbed two large fistfuls of Morgoth's shaggy black hair. He jumped up onto his enemy's back; the surplus weight on his body caused the ex-Vala's limbs to buckle beneath him. He reared up like a wild stallion, but the Wrestler hung on with his whole strength and will. Still grinning, he spoke right into Morgoth's ear: "Who is crushing whom?"

Morgoth suddenly rolled over onto his back, pinning Tulkas under him – or so he hoped. From his current position, lying flat on his back, the Vala lifted his adversary straight up into the air, balancing the Dark Lord upon his palms and the soles of his feet. With hardly an effort, it seemed, Tulkas flung Morgoth bodily off of him. The ex-Vala hit the ground with a deafening THUD, and his mammoth form shuddered visibly.

Tulkas fairly strolled forward, halting beside the huddled body of his nemesis. He was no longer smiling, and his voice, when he spoke, was foreign to his normal personality – no longer cheery and laughing, it now held a faint shade of what could have been remorse. "I am truly sorry, Morgoth."

**_You _pity_ me?_** the Dark Lord growled, one livid scarlet eye rolling backward to stare at him. **_You feel regret for what you have done?_**

"I said that I was sorry," the Wrestler answered softly. "And I am…"

His grin flashed back into place as he finished the sentence: "I am sorry that _I_ am not the one to finish you off, once and for all!"


	6. Part VI

**Part VI: All For One**

Morgoth's head swung around, glaring first at Tulkas, and then swiveling about to look at Mandos. The Doomsman said nothing, but turned his own gaze to a figure very far below him. A man was advancing through the silent multitude of the Children of Eru and Aulë, as they parted like water to let him by.

The man who now strode through the throng was clad in simple attire, although a darkly-splendid sword hung at his hip. In his grey eyes lingered the memories of many things, all of them too dark to want remembering; the sorrow of numberless years was etched deep into his face. His cursed life had given him many names: Neithan, Mormegil, Agarwaen, and others, but he was known primarily as Túrin Turambar, the Master of Doom.

Everyone clearly saw Morgoth's face blanch; it was like watching milk being stirred into ink. The ex-Vala's eye widened in perceptible horror, and the Doomsman smiled quietly and grimly as Tulkas laughed. Túrin's gaze was cold and unwavering as he stared into the Dark Lord's face. After no more than a few fleeting seconds, Morgoth could not help but turn away.

"Get up and face me, Morgoth."

The words clipped icily and precisely from Túrin's tongue. His tone brooked no defiance; the Dark Lord had little choice but to obey, no matter how his own will challenged it. He struggled to rise, his whole body trembling, and only succeeded in raising his torso a few scant inches. He glared balefully over his shoulder at the stone-faced warrior beside him.

Túrin's expression never changed as he walked calmly around his rival's huddled, hairy body, so that he stood in-between Morgoth's tight-clenched left fist and his dangling right arm. The man craned his neck to gaze up into his enemy's single eye, which narrowed in loathing as Túrin drew his black sword with a sharp rasping sound.

**_What do you want of me?_** the ex-Vala demanded in a growl. **_Speak!_**

"I want many things from you," Túrin answered, in a chilling whisper. "But these things shall all be rectified if you would do me but one favor: join with me in single combat, one on one. I shall ask for no aid, and nor shall you. Agreed?"

**_Agreed,_** Morgoth nodded spitefully.**_ Then let us begin._**

Túrin nodded without any further words, and was the first one to strike, ducking between the looming black figure's arms, and lunging straight for his chest. Morgoth dragged the man out with the first two fingers of his good hand, throwing him almost carelessly aside. Túrin struck the ground hard, but was back on his feet in moments. He ducked and darted forward and back, striking like lightning and moving like the wind. The Dark Lord lashed out at him, as a horse would to a gnat, but his crippled strength was no match for Túrin's wholesome speed.

Morgoth's body twisted and writhed around like a wounded serpent, and under his breath he grunted and growled as he tried again and again to strike back at his foe. Túrin fought in grim silence, dodging sledgehammer blows from the ex-Vala's wildly flailing left arm, diving under his great belly and looking briefly upward – a patch of black sky was visible through a gaping, almost perfectly circular hole in Morgoth's abdomen. The man wasted not a moment in stabbing into the Dark Lord's stomach, and ignoring the resulting roar of agony and the violent upheaval of Morgoth's body, he swung himself deftly up and hung hazardously, upside-down, from his foe's belly.

Clutching his sword in his right hand, a hank of thick black hair in his left, and a second hank in-between his feet, Túrin drew his sword hand back. Through a choking cascade of ashes, he stabbed again, into the dark, torn flesh within Morgoth's body, beyond the edge of the circular wound.

He gripped more hair, higher up, and repeated those actions again. Repressing a strong urge to vomit, he then moved his head and most of his torso into the tunnel-like hole. In this way, he climbed skillfully through Morgoth's very body and onto his back. The Dark Lord clawed vainly at him, trying to stop him, but he only caused more hurt to himself by straining torn muscles and shredding the crusted flesh of his old injury.

Túrin ran up Morgoth's neck and onto the crown of his head, tumbling down his forehead and taking out the ex-Vala's remaining eye as he passed. The man skidded to a halt near the end of the blunt muzzle, and shouted into his enemy's blinded face: "For your sake, I hope you can smell as well as you once could see!"

**_And for _your _sake,_** Morgoth bellowed back, **_I hope you can jump as swiftly as you can speak!_**

He flung back his head, and Túrin leapt. He managed to grasp one of Morgoth's tapered, wolflike ears as he sailed past it, and dangled fifty feet above the earth. The ex-Vala's left paw-hand rose to snatch him away, but with this sudden motion, Morgoth's overbalanced body tipped dangerously to one side, and he rolled over onto his back. At the same time, Túrin let himself drop onto his foe's shoulder, raced across his collarbone and down onto his torso.

Morgoth gasped to pull in breath as he lay sprawled in the dust. His head swung this way and that way, blindly searching out Túrin, who stood steadily on the Dark Lord's massive chest. The man's black sword gleamed in the radiance of the Ainur all around him as he held it, point down, directly over Morgoth's heart. As everyone else observed in silence, the warrior spoke out loud, apparently to the weapon he held: "Now, Gurthang. Will you take Melkor Morgoth? Will you slay him swiftly?"

The sable-hued blade seemed to ring in reply, answering Túrin. _I am parched, Turambar. Here I will gladly slake my thirst for blood; I would rather upon no other._

"Then," cried Túrin, raising Gurthang even higher in both hands, "if it is Eru's will, make his breast your chalice, and drink your fill!"

Morgoth's black lips moved mutely, forming a silent **_No!_** as a bizarre smile lit up Túrin's features. Gurthang hissed triumphantly through the air as it descended, and plunged right into the Dark Lord's huge black torso. Morgoth had not even the chance to cry out before great cracks began to spread out across his body, as though he were carven of stone; they originated from the wound in his chest, and poured forth darkness.

The ex-Vala coughed futilely for air, but there was no hindering the inevitable. A sobbing cry escaped him, and his entire body fell apart, hair and flesh and bone all disintegrating. Soon there was only Túrin, standing submerged to his hips in grey dust… the remains of the primal evil. And all around, the few of Morgoth's underlings who were still standing unwillingly followed their Lord's suit, bursting swiftly into ashes, and being blown away by the winds of Manwë.

Except for those whispering winds, a breathless silence reigned over the land of Valinor. Túrin stood stone-still, staring at Gurthang, which fell from his nerveless hands to land in the shrinking pile of Morgoth's ashes. The sword was mute now, a simple thing of steel.

Like a ripple of unexpected music in a quiet room, someone's bright laughter bubbled up. Heads turned all across the ash-strewn battleground, looking bewilderedly left and right, and then upward, to gaze in wonder at the last person anyone would have expected to see.

Nienna stood just as dumbstruck as anyone else, her hand partially obscuring her mouth – _her _mouth, which had, for some reason, allowed that strange, sweet sound to leave it. She could not recall the last time she had laughed (not at all, she was sure!); yet here she was, Fui Nienna, the Weeper, the first person to show mirth after the destruction of Evil. How things had changed!

And how, indeed, they were changing yet! Nienna's appearance and countenance were as good as turned upside-down – no more was she a raven-haired mourner with deep, teary eyes, clothed in indigo and ebony; now her hair glittered like spun threads of bronze, and her eyes shone a clear, summer-sky blue. Her raiment held the hue of blooming daffodils, ever cheery and vivid yellow.

A second laugh escaped her, this one far more nervous than the first. But, heartened much by the soft, quavery utterance which her throat had begotten, Nienna willingly let another of the same take confident flight on lilting wings. But just as soon, she gasped to discover herself folded in the strong embrace of Tulkas. The Wrestler was laughing aloud, and he twirled his kinswoman around as they both gave full vent to their mirth. Nienna had tears in her bright eyes, but they were tears of pure, pristine happiness.

Mandos approached the pair of them softly, addressing his sister with a smile. "You must have a new name from now on, it appears. You are no longer 'She-who-Weeps' – Nienna would not be a fitting title."

"Indeed," the Valië nodded pensively. "I am joyous now, and not melancholy. What then is my name?"

"Why not let your name be 'Joyous'?" Tulkas suggested. "The Eldar would then call you _Alassëa_ in one tongue."

"Alassëa," she repeated, smiling as the name tumbled pleasingly from her tongue. "I will be Alassëa!"

"A good name, indeed," Mandos nodded. "Alassëa the Joyous… Nienna no more."

----

Arien roved through the ranks of victorious warriors, calling out for one she had become separated from. "Tilion, Tilion!"

The silver-clad Maia turned at the sound of his name, and hurried to answer the summons she had issued to him. In the unexpectedness of the moment, Tilion's old stutter returned when he spoke in answer. "A-Arien… what is it?"

"I have not thanked you appropriately for what you did for me," the female Maia replied, her voice low and gentle. "I am in your debt henceforth."

Tilion felt his cheeks flush with heat, though whether it was due to a blush, or because of Arien's sudden increase in closeness to him, he didn't know. He stared at her uncertainly, unable to tear his gaze away from her fiery eyes. He longed to close the slim gap between them, to turn and flee, to do a hundred different senseless things whose motives he could not explain. She was closer still, and speaking again.

"I know that you have pursued me day and night for many Ages, since first we carried the Sun and Moon across the heavens," she said softly. "And even when I had rejected you a hundred times, still you were resolute. You would not succumb to failure, even if it meant greater pain to your own body and heart. But now that I have seen what you were entirely willing to suffer for my sake – the rage of the Dark Lord himself! – I am willing to…"

She faltered, dropping her gaze for a moment. Tilion smiled gently and lifted her chin, so they were looking at each other again. The hunter-Maia felt what was in his kinswoman's heart, and she felt what lay in his. In a moment of pure, perfect understanding, they came together, fusing mouth with mouth and spirit with spirit in a loving kiss of body and soul.

----

Túrin looked up hurriedly as a hand found his shoulder. Manwë was smiling down at him from a much lesser height than he had had before; the Vala was now just about seven feet tall, as compared to his previous elevation of a hundred feet. The Wind-lord gave the man a benign nod, and lifted him up again when he laid facedown on the ground in reverence.

"You need no longer bow to me, or any of my kindred," he said kindly. "We are all equal in the sight of Eru."

Túrin nodded slowly, unaccustomed to this new revelation – not to bow before the Valar! But he stood obediently tall, gazing up into Manwë's pale blue eyes and starting to speak quietly. "What other duty would you have me do, my l—"

Manwë's smile widened a bit as he pressed a soft forefinger to Túrin's lips, gently cutting him off. "I would have you refrain from calling me 'lord'. My own name will suffice."

Túrin almost forgot not to bow. "As you wish… Manwë."

The Wind-lord nodded once in satisfaction, and drew the man fondly, almost lovingly, to his side with four words: "Please sing with me, Túrin." It was a request, not a command, but Túrin knew better than to decline, although he did not know just what he was to sing.

Without pause, Manwë parted his lips, allowing a stream of pure, sweet music to flow out from his throat. It was no voice of the Children of Arda he used, no tongue of Elves, Men or Dwarfs. The song that poured from the Vala's soul to the listener's ears was like to the sound of a golden harp strummed by a thousand winds; yet they understood its meaning with no effort. _Hail to Ilúvatar, the Lord above Lords! All glory be to Him alone, for He alone is worthy!_

Túrin echoed the words of praise in his own tongue, and felt his heart flooded with a joy for which there was no phrase. The Song was composed of purest bliss, thanksgiving and worship to the One Most High, the Father of All.

All at once there came a brilliant Light to blaze out through the great darkness, a Light so glorious that Varda herself was dim in comparison, like a winking firefly striving to let its tiny glow be seen against the radiance of the Sun. This new Light held all the hues of the rainbow, and in its center there was a figure with a shining white face, who wore a crown of gold on his brow. This was Eru Ilúvatar, unveiled in His beauty; this was He to whom all praise and honor was due. He smiled upon the ranks of people who cast themselves at His feet, and was well pleased.

At the sight of their one true Lord, the whole host had fallen reverently silent, in the hope of heeding whatever tidings He would bring them. Eru lifted His right hand, and spoke in a voice that held power, wisdom and love, all rolled into one. He spoke of triumph, of the banishment of all Darkness, and of never-ending joy and peace, in a world wrought anew – a world wrought by Music.

_Yes,_ came the replying call from the reverent host, _yes, Lord, we will do as You say! Tell us what we shall sing!_

Eru beamed, and gave them His answer.

Again the rippling song of a harp rose up from Manwë as he climbed to his feet, and Eru stood and listened to him for awhile, before nodding to another of the host. Varda's voice was heard, sounding just like a flute; she was soon joined by Ulmo, then Yavanna, then Aulë, and all the other Valar in their due order. Then the Maiar sang out with their kind, until it appeared that a mighty orchestra was playing: woodwinds, stringed instruments, percussion, and other melodious layers were sweetly added.

That was only the beginning. The Eldar then lifted high their voices in their own tongues: Quenya, Noldorin, Sindarin. They were hard-put to translate their love into simple words. Their melody was coupled with that of the Men and Halflings, rejoicing in the languages of their own; and the Dwarfs, praising Eru as well, felt that it was even more natural than to revere Aulë, their own Maker. So the One listened, and smiled, and said to Himself, _It is good._

The Singers were all on their feet, pouring forth praise as Eru poured back His goodness. Tears of elation flowed unnoticed and unhindered from every eye; they wanted to praise Him forever, they wanted the Song to flood and fill infinity… but they still had their task to finish.

So, still singing, they dispersed at Eru's bidding to reach all the corners of the Old World, and to craft it new and undying, for His mighty reign would never end. There would be no more ends… there would be only a million new beginnings.

**The Beginning**


End file.
